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Colophon

Cynthia Zarin

Issue 98, Winter 1985

Rain of the months and years we had known each other pressed in, printing the new car as we left the wedding. Larkspur, phlox, roses weedy in the gravel, the stretch of slanted windows, the meander of spring into summer in the beanfield. The relief of going hit in a peculiar way, abreast, a spreading stain: the rain sloshed on the windshield. As we went, the church rose into the brink, and we counted out the white dresses and the school ties, the vows. The hillside spiraled, chestnut, and along the service road Lady Bird’s florals glistened, so that even now, speaking in the rain, we think of her—her little hats, triangular in the heartland. Our glance lit on fenceposts, water towers, the road frayed like a hymnal ribbon as we followed it, winding past the resort towns: Shelburne, Barrington, Tanglewood, the misty profile of Brahms in the treetops, under the striped tents. Ahead of us, the rain came in ridges, whole meadows of water, and the air was matted: three centuries of water since the bells pealed out. My shoes were wet in the dew, waiting for the ceremony, and now, looking over towards you, I saw your face cloudy against the dripping window.